1942; A Year in Retrospect

 

I fondly recall the scent of aftershave and 1942. A man who knew his vices all too well and indulged in them daily. Cigar in hand, he smiled with all his pearly whites and loved his mockery. The year started on a Thursday and every single citizen of the town was in an optimistic mindset. World War Two drifted among the people. It invaded their sleep and left them with an eerie feeling of discomfort, of unease. An unsettling aftertaste that no one knew how to cope with and that wasn't discussed. A darkness seeping through the cracks, unseen to the human eye. But time went on. Minutes and seconds continued to perpetually tick away. Win after win, Joe DiMaggio played on. In living rooms all across the country the good wholesome people tuned in. Reliable Cary Grant played his role as well in the grand scheme of things. I played mine too. We all did. Even if the ending was predictable, we all played along. It was inevitable. Suits were worn on Sundays and ladies' best dresses made an appearance. The blue tie, the green tie, the red tie, but the details are insignificant. Wednesdays were always crisp clear days that year but that is irrelevant as well. Nobody remembers the specifics of the Technicolor motion pictures. The very same motion pictures that consumed our Saturday nights at the drive in movies. Suburban dates at the soda shop on Friday nights, high school sweethearts went to prom and have the grainy photographs to prove it. Boyish good looks were glorified and star athletes were worshipped with secrets to hide and the shoes of great men to fill. They tripped on the untied shoelaces, embarrassing their generation and growing up to be successful businessmen. We all walked around with our own vague notions about the meaning of life and all the kids rode their bikes around the neighborhood. He saved up money to buy a red convertible and I wore a pink bow in my hair. The year ended on a Thursday. I climbed a tree, tore my best dress, and said goodbye to 1942. I was living in a passing phase. I knew it in my bones and could not deny the powerful force of time that was covering up everything I knew and all aspects of the modern world. My teeth began to hurt with the sheer pressure of everything. Every thought and every fact I'd ever learned. I climbed down the tree, scratched my knee and went inside. The year ended without a bang and the first hour of 1943 was spent in good company making ridiculous wishes and predictions for the New Year. Meanwhile, people across America were living their lives to the fullest. Drinking champagne, losing inhibitions, proclaiming love, fighting joyously and fighting epically. The year of 1942 was a year of bloodshed, self-inflicted to be exact. We put on a show in the supermarket line and in the newspaper articles, and we won science fairs. I am partial to regressing back to this time. The good old days were not so perfect after all, but endearing. Endearing like a family dinner and Cary Grant's films. 1942 was a year unremarkable overall, but quite grand in detail. But I suppose it comes down to the mere fact that you just had to be there. For the scent of aftershave is quite linked to the decor and the bright able-bodied youth and self-indulging adults.